[AgentZero]

Bring Us More Pie!

A champagne cork ricocheted off the roof and landed neatly in someone's outstretched glass. The room erupted into peals of drunken laughter as the victim of fate tried vainly to fish the bobbing cork out from his glass, his impaired co-ordination causing him to mostly spill wine all over himself. His antics drew more and more laughter until finally, a well aimed cork popped him square in the nose and he toppled to the ground. A brief silence descended upon the room, but only lasted as long as the first snort of poorly contained laughter. The unlucky man finally pulled himself to his feet, grabbed a bottle off the table and held it aloft.
“To success!” he declared loudly. “Beyond our wildest expectations!”
The cheers were punctuated by the sound of more corks popping as the champagne flowed liberally. The happy, drunken conversation ebbed slightly as the doors opened, then loud cheers erupted once again as a tall, stunningly beautiful young woman entered the room. She wore a full length white trench coat wrapped tightly around her that accentuated the curve of her breasts and hips magnificently, black gloves and matching black boots. Her olive skin offset her light blonde hair, and none were able to look away from her large, strikingly blue eyes. She entered the room confidently, with a sensuous sway to her hips, made her way to the table at the centre of the room and stepped up onto it.
“Gentlemen,” she purred softly. “If you will be so kind as to be seated, the... entertainment will begin.”
In all the years that they had been meeting, never had they assembled at the table so quickly as they did now, staring upwards with eager faces, smiling puppy dog smiles at her as her lips curved gently upwards. As soon as they were all seated, she began to move, swaying her hips slowly in rhythm to unheard music. She began to move faster and faster, her movements smooth and confident, graceful. Suddenly, she flung open her trench coat, and her audience gasped at the sight of two automatic plasma bolters strapped to her chest. Smiling broadly, she drew the bolters from their holsters, held them above her head and began to slowly gyrate her hips as she lowered herself almost to her knees, then raised herself up again, then began to move slowly downwards again. There was a smattering of applause as the audience recognized the bit: They were dangerous men, they enjoyed danger, and having their stripper armed just made the show that much more exciting. On her way back up again, she paused, threw her pistols into the air, let her trench coat slide to the ground and caught the guns again easily to another smattering of applause. No sooner were the weapons back in her hands than she suddenly launched herself high into the air, flipping head over heels and rotating around her centre axis at the same time. Her plasma bolters snarled viciously, and when her feet again touched down at the table, all those around it were dead, save the one at the head of the table, who found himself looking down a red hot barrel. His eyes slowly moved up to face the beautiful assassin, and his lips managed to form the words, “Why?”
The killer smiled charmingly back at him, and as she did so, her hair blackened, her dark skin paled to white and her liquid blue eyes decayed to the deepest shade of black.
“You know why,” she whispered. “Bastard.” And with that, she fired a single round into his heart, hopped off the table and strode out of the room.
The man known only as One watched her go, paralyzed from the shock of being shot, knowing he was dying, and knowing just as well that there was nothing that could be done about it. At first, he wondered if it was his dying mind playing tricks on him, but it soon became apparent that the table before him was indeed twisting and deforming itself, spilling plates and glasses and bottles onto the laps of those seated around it, except for one untouched glass of champagne that managed to stay upright as the table went through all manner of contortions, eventually resolving itself into the figure of a man, holding the glass of wine in one hand. One stared in wonderment at this apparition that stood before him, the face that most had attained legendary, almost mythological significance amongst the organization.
“Zero,” whispered One. “You're real... You're here... You're-”
“Terribly disappointed,” interrupted the other, sipping gently at the champagne. “I look around me and what do I see? Nothing but failure. The grand organization I brought into being reduced to nothing by it's own incompetence.”
“Not... our... fault...” whispered One. “Even we... cannot stop... a Deathchild.”
“No,” agreed Zero solemnly. “But I wouldn't have expected you to. I would, however, have expected you to avoid giving a Deathchild good cause for vengeance.” He shook his head sadly. “It's my own fault, really. I stood idly by and watched as you all drifted away from my teachings, as you became so blinded by your own greed and petty concerns that when the object of your entire existence was revealed, you couldn't even see it for what it was, instead branding a threat. You were supposed to protect her,” he hissed, then paused and took a good look at One. “Of course, you're not listening to a word I'm saying, seeing as you're dead and all, which is a terrible pity, really. You see, now there's no one left for me to share the delightful irony of this whole situation with.” He sighed softly. “I suppose I could always catch up with the Deathchild, I'm sure she'd appreciate the irony. Yes,” he said, taking a deep draught of champagne. “I'm sure she would appreciate it indeed.”